It’s been exactly 10 years since my arrival to Heathrow with a relatively small suitcase where I packed my whole previous existence. I was going to meet the love of my life, I was excited, overwhelmed and exhausted.
I saw him waving to me just right behind the luggage carousel: he was standing in the brightest spot of sunny light.
I know I repeat myself every time when I recollect all the trifles and tutti quanti of this day—sorry about that, but they became truly unforgettable: I’ve already forgotten some wanky details about getting my visa (if make an effort, I still can restore them in my mind, but I don’t want to), but awakening the really valuable ones still feels as precious and essentially important as it was when I came.
The long journey over the Tube with a few sudden interruptions (the line was out of power), the beehive of bright and happy Kings Cross, of course, that one pain au raisin that I shared with L., the train with fully open windows (it was a hot August ten years ago) that flew to Cambridge so quickly that I didn’t even notice a thing, the house, the garden, and Pickle who freaked out a bit while meeting a stranger.
These ten years were years of love, and discoveries, and fails (because, as we all remember, nothing is possible without a failure), and I do wish to continue. My new life is not new anymore, and knowing this is comforting. More to come, I hope.
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